[It's too bad Hank's too distracted by the dangerous concept of eating real food to notice what she's doing. For the sake of his fancy pampered pet dog he'd probably appreciate it.]

Oh god. Uh, I mean- no. No, that's uh- [He swallows, then clears his throat.] That's fine. You just, uh- you just keep it for yourself, you probably need lots of, uh-

[Is that rude? Saying someone probably needs to eat a lot, if they're part horse? His fucking life, jesus.]

-anyway, if you even eat meat, don't horses- fuck, I mean... centaurs? Starts with a j, fuck. [He rubs a hand over his face, presses his fingers against his brow, and keeps them there, grimacing. He should have known not to talk to her when he was feeling like this. He goes on anyway, though, his voice slow and unhappy.] Shit, I, um- just, keep it for someone. Not for me. Okay? Sorry.